


amid the wonders vast of immortality

by LivingInSmilesIsBetter (axm)



Category: Forever (TV), Warehouse 13
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Ficathon, longstoryficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axm/pseuds/LivingInSmilesIsBetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Myka and Pete find themselves in NY to locate an antique that happens to be in Abe's Store. Which also leads them to suspect Henry’s lifespan and maybe his reveal to Jo."</p><p>---</p><p>Myka glanced across the street – and tensed. “Oh no.”</p><p>“What?” Pete followed her eyes and swallowed hard. “Oh no.”</p><p>They stood staring at the address the ping had directed them too, both suddenly feeling overwhelmed by what lay within. Abe’s Antiques. A store full of potential artifacts. They were screwed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> Prompt: Forever/Warehouse13: Myka and Pete find themselves in NY to locate an antique that happens to be in Abe's Store. Which also leads them to suspect Henry's lifespan and maybe his reveal to Jo. (fyi love your writing, so much joy)
> 
> Huge THANK YOU to the wonderful person who sent me that prompt over tumblr – whose name I have forgotten because I am absolutely the worst. Remind me who you are and I'll credit you. I'm so sorry :/
> 
> NOTES: Do you need to know Warehouse 13 to read this fic? It would be to your advantage. Apart from what Forever characters needed to know, I haven't spent much time explaining what things are, such as the Farnsworth (I suppose the most important piece of info is that Artie's father, Izzy, was played by Judd Hirsch).
> 
> The fic takes place post- Warehouse 13 series finale. When it takes place in the Forever timeline is kept a little vague through most of the fic on purpose.
> 
> And, finally, keeping it in W13 canon as much as possible, it is Pyka flavoured. If that ship isn't your thing, I'm sorry. That's how the series ended, so that's the place these characters are currently in, and it was necessary for this story. I'd be grateful if any reviews left weren't anti-ship. You can chat with me about W13 ships and anti-ships on twitter if you wish ( pinktrekbek). I don't want shippers of any couple left upset by any comments left in the reviews though. Thanks lovelies!
> 
> Important warnings: depression; substance abuse; suicide.
> 
> Title is from a poem by Patrick Branwell Bronte. If you have knowledge of both shows you'll see why it was chosen.

**_amid the wonders vast of immortality_ **

 

* * *

 

"When did you take up painting?"

Henry paused mid-stroke, the oil paint staining the brush claret. He blinked, and leaned forward, the paintbrush picking up where it had left off, one stroke, curving in another, with a flourish, a flick of his wrist.

"I'd been contemplating it for some time," he replied focusing heavily on the canvas in front of him, the one he had purchased at a local art supply store. The easel too. The oil paints. Everything except the paintbrush, which he had already acquired. Borrowed. Found. He had come across it in the store, buried at the bottom of a box of items Abe had recently purchased. Plucking it out from where it rested, forgotten, something about it had rattled his memory, something about it felt familiar against his palm. Like he had held it before. Like it belonged to him. Without a second thought, he had absconded with it, down to his laboratory, with images already forming in his mind, faces and landscapes that cried out to be painted. People he once knew; places he had been.

"Natural talent, by the looks of it." Abe stepped closer to the painting, and let out an appreciative puff of air. "You ever have lessons?"

"A long time ago," Henry admitted. "Briefly."

"Must have had a good teacher."

Henry nodded, feeling a tug of sadness as the memory of his teacher, his friend, washed over him. "He was talented, yes."

"And who's this?" Abe asked, gesturing at the portrait.

Taking a step back, his eyes focused on the half-finished piece before him, he became aware then of exactly who he'd been painting. Like muscle memory, he had created a hauntingly accurate portrait of the man he'd met in a pub, and struck up an instant friendship with, back during Victoria's reign. "Branwell Brontë," Henry said on a sigh, extending his brush-free right hand towards the portrait. "My teacher."

The name didn't register with Abe, and why should it? He hadn't published a novel, his poetry received little attention, and even his art was overshadowed by his drinking and drug use. When Henry had met him he'd been another clergyman's son, in London in search of a way to make a living. They had met in an inn, and had struck up a friendship over dreary subject matter. And now his face - a face he hadn't seen in almost two hundred years - was staring back at him from the canvas.

"Did you say Brontë?" Abe asked after a few moments of silence.

"Yes, Branwell had some rather famous sisters."

Abe nodded in recognition. "You ever meet them?"

"No," Henry replied, putting his paintbrush down and wiping his hands on a rag that smelled faintly of turpentine. "I never had the pleasure, but he spoke highly of them. Especially of Emily. It was many years later before I made the connection that the Bells were his sisters. By then," Henry said, his shoulders slumping as a sudden wave of sadness washed over him, "he was dead, they all were."

"I'm sorry," Abe said, his voice solemn.

Henry nodded his thanks. "I stopped by the church on my way through Yorkshire once, to pay my respects, and the stories I heard about Branwell made me wish I hadn't. The image painted by the patrons at the inn that day were of a different man to the one I'd met in London." The memory hit him hard. Melancholy wrapped around him, holding on to him with a firm grip, and the ghost in his head told him alcohol would provide an escape. "If you'll excuse me," he said to Abe, "I have somewhere I need to be."

"You okay?" Abe asked. He watched Henry with curious eyes that narrowed to slits when his father nodded. That little dip of his chin had held no sincerity. "Will you be late?"

"Yes, I believe I will be," Henry replied. He moved away from the painting, and checked his hands for paint before pulling on his coat. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Hitting the town with Jo?" Abe probed.

"No, I think after today she'd rather have some space from me."

"Oh, Henry, what did you do?" He gave Henry a disapproving look. "She's one of the good ones, go easy on her."

"I was doing my job, Abraham," he said in a firm tone.

"Which means?"

He slipped a scarf around his neck and tucked the ends into his coat. "I made a connection, and added another body to the count."

"So, what you're saying is, you gave the poor woman a serial killer to hunt down?"

"With quite the number of victims."

He had felt quite awful after doing so. However he'd rather identify the pattern and dig out the related cases while trying to ignore the tired eyes she attempted to hide behind a little extra eyeliner and mascara, and the scowl she made no effort to disguise, than allow this person to kill again. But perhaps he'd have a drink for Jo too, even though she was likely at home now already working on her second glass. She had looked ready to hit the bottle when six had rolled around and he had left for home – or "ditched" her, as she'd accused his retreating form. He hoped she'd been joking, although she had sounded rather hurt. Then he'd found the paintbrush, dug out the art supplies, and the day had seeped from his mind as the paint had coated the brush. Now, well, now he needed to get out of there, before Abe questioned him further about his plans. Before he thought too deeply about them himself.

Scarf in place, coat buttoned, he slinked out, the solid soles of his expensive leather shoes finding traction on the icy sidewalk. He wandered until just the right kind of bar caught his eyes and he stepped in, letting the inky interior wrap around him and shroud him in despair. This was what he needed, to sit and drink, to be surrounded by people searching for solace at the bottom on a glass, isolated in their own rueful bubbles of loneliness. Some drank to forget, but perhaps he would drink until he remembered why he was feeling so down on this particular evening. He knew exactly what he needed tonight - he just didn't know _why._

 

* * *

 

His eyes blurred as he gazed down into the clear liquid at the bottom of his glass. He hadn't been keeping count, had just been raising a hand to the bartender every time he'd drained his glass, gesturing for another refill. Gin, it seemed, was his drink of choice on this night, although he couldn't fathom why. It had simply felt right. And the more he threw back the less he cared.

"I have never done anything great," Henry slurred as the bartender topped him up. "Not in all my years."

The man behind the bar, without a hint of empathy, replied, "When you've sobered up tomorrow do something great." He wiped the surface of the bar with a rag that did little more than spread the spills across the mahogany, and shrugged. "Last drink, buddy. Make tomorrow count." He moved on, down the bar, his damp rag still skimming the wood, already talking to another patron.

Henry considered his words. Almost two hundred and thirty six years, and not a second of greatness. He questioned if he'd ever done anything even remotely good. He hadn't saved James, he'd lost his Abigail, and he was no closer to ending his curse. All those years, wasted. Tomorrow would be no different. The painting would remain incomplete, another failed attempt, and he would likely uncover another victim while being no closer to solving the case.

The darkness in his mind enclosed him like a tight shroud, extinguishing all light, suffocating all joy, but he still felt it. The sadness. Soon, the tingle would begin, from the tips of his fingers, spreading through him, until all he felt was numb. Until all that remained was an empty, cold, husk of the man he had once been. And, then - nothing. He would feel nothing at all.

Sitting in the back of a cab he had no recollection of being bundled into, he sat gazing out the window, seeing nothing, longing for the bliss of oblivion, those mere seconds between death and rebirth, the little taste of death he was allowed.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning sun had melted the ice off the city, giving the air a crisp bite. Myka inhaled deeply and smiled. It was good to be in a city again, good to be out of the Warehouse, tiny little Univille, and the South Dakota Badlands. It was also good to be in the same city as her favorite book store. Well, second favorite, after her dad's store, of course.

New books, and rare books. Her favorite worlds, and stories she was yet to discover. She needed a moment, before they left, to ease a tattered old book off a shelf, open it with care, touch the yellowing pages, and breathe it in. She needed a moment to lose herself in a book, in that shop in Brooklyn that always kept a little piece of her heart when she wasn't there, and to steal a moment of solace.

"Hey, Mykes."

Myka blinked out of her literary reverie and turned to where her partner stood on the sidewalk, gazing into a pizzeria, almost literally salivating. She couldn't judge him; there was no doubt in her mind she'd just had her own moment on the pavement, chin raised, eyes closed, inhaling an imagined scent of one hundred year old paper. They both had their weaknesses. Pete's just happened to be food.

"New York pizza." Awe filled Pete's tone. Like he'd never had it before. Like it wasn't the first place he always tried to drag her to the moment they picked up their rental. A donut on the way out of the terminal at LaGuardia, and a pizza once in Manhattan - if he got his way (and always a quick trip to her bookstore on the way back to the airport, when she could browse without the threat of an artifact hanging over them).

She sighed. It was close enough to lunch that they could just quickly go in, grab a slice, and then get to work. But they shouldn't. There was an artifact out there, with some poor hapless soul in its grips, and they couldn't linger. "Later, Pete," she told him. "Artifact first."

"And then pizza?" he asked, giving her a hopeful smile.

"Sure."

She had found the best bookstore in the city, in her opinion, many years prior. Pete was on a similar mission of his own, driven by his stomach. She rolled her eyes at him every time he dragged her into another restaurant, but secretly she thought it endearing. So utterly Lattimer. One day he would find the best pizza in town, and then what? On to the best cookie? Hotdog? Pretzel? Either way she would simultaneously support him in his new quest, and roll her eyes in faux annoyance.

He snaked his arm around her waist, his fingers curling at her hip, and squeezed happily. Broken out of her thoughts, she slipped out of his hold and gave him an annoyed look.

"Not in public," she reminded him, keeping her voice low.

Pete looked around. "No one here cares, Mykes," he told her, shaking his head as he spoke. "Hell, no one at the Warehouse cares. I mean, not in a negative way anyway."

Tucking her loose, shoulder-length curls behind her ear, she said in the firmest voice she could muster, "You know how I feel about PDAs while working."

"Fine," he said, dragging the word out. "But later tonight, when we're off the clock…"

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she couldn't help the soft chuckle that escaped her lips. "With pizza even." She gave him a saucy grin.

His eyes lit up in pure joy. "I love you."

She chuckled softly. It still made her heart skip, hearing him say those words. She hoped it never stopped creating that flutter in her stomach, that warmth in her chest. "I know." She tilted her head, held his warm gaze, and gave him a bright smile. It was funny how their relationship had changed, shifted, from friends to more, and yet hadn't seemed to change at all. He was still her best friend; he was still her Pete, the lovable goof with the heart of gold who had never met a baked good he couldn't say no to. Breaking the eye contact before anything escalated in public, Myka glanced across the street – and tensed. "Oh no."

"What?" Pete followed her eyes and swallowed hard. "Oh no."

They stood staring at the address the ping had directed them too, both suddenly feeling overwhelmed by what lay within. Abe's Antiques. A store full of potential artifacts. They were screwed.

 

* * *

 

 

Henry snapped at Lucas at eleven AM; hung-over, tired, rueful and sullen, he let it overcome him, and bit out an acerbic response to what should have been a harmless question. And, instead of letting it go, Lucas pushed. He questioned Henry's state, made him feel like his every move was being scrutinised, questioned him, and that was the last straw. He sent his confused, and clearly concerned, assistant home, too frustrated with his presence to put up with him a second longer. He caught the final glance Lucas threw his way before the elevator doors closed and there was no doubt in Henry's mind he was about to be tattled on to Jo - and braced himself for that visit.

But not well enough, it seemed. When she stopped by to check on him at noon and he snapped at her to mind her own business, he knew something was really wrong. So did she. Unlike Lucas, however, she stood her ground and put him in his place.

Lucas, she told him as she took hold of his elbow and hauled his ass into his office, had already been to see her. Not news to him, although this time he managed to keep his mouth shut and suppress the ill-tempered response festering inside him.

"Go home, Henry," she told him. She stood staring him down, arms folded across her chest, eyes hard.

"No, Jo, I-"

She raised a hand and cut him off. "You gonna tell me what's wrong?"

He dropped his gaze and shook his head.

"Then go home."

He studied the floor, the subtle patterns in the linoleum, his shoulder sagging under the weight of a meaningless existence, a wasted life. With the last ounce of strength he could gather, he lifted his eyes and nodded. "Maybe I should."

Jo's eyes softened at his defeated appearance. He knew he looked bad. He didn't need a mirror to see it. It only bothered him that she saw it.

"Whatever it is that's eating at you, talk to Abe?" She was pleading now, her voice softer, her eyes showing her own pain. "Let him help you work through it."

"I just…" He dropped down into the chair, surprising both of them, and admitted, "I don't know what's wrong. I just can't seem to shake this sadness."

It was out there now. Honesty. He couldn't take it back.

Maybe he was reaching out.

Maybe he wasn't as far gone as he felt.

 

 

Jo stepped over to him with slow steps, careful not to spook him now he was actually talking. He'd been getting better at opening up recently, but he was still more guarded than she liked. "Why are you sad?"

"That's just it, Jo. I don't know."

She didn't think she had ever seen him so broken. Initially she had wondered if he'd simply felt bad about dumping a serial killer on her; she had perhaps not reacted as kindly to his findings as she should have. But that wasn't what this was. She didn't know exactly what this was, but she knew it was bad. She had never seen his usually warm eyes so flat, so lacking that Henry sparkle. She missed his sparkle. "Hanson can cover for me." She laid a hand on his arm, until he lifted his solemn eyes to hers. "Let me take you home. We'll pick up some comfort food, a movie, cheer you up my way."

He gave her a half-smile, little more than a twitch of his lips but more than she'd seen all day. "Comfort food?"

Jo brightened. "Food truck-style."

"Sounds awful."

Despite his dull tone, he was trying. "Don't knock it till you try it," she told him.

"I'm not really sure I'm up to this."

"What would you rather do?"

"Drink myself into oblivion," he said darkly.

"Oh, Henry." She reached for him and squeezed his arm. "Let's try it my way first, okay? We'll get something safe, a pizza maybe instead? I can introduce you to the wonders of the food truck another time." She left her hand on him, like maybe it would anchor him to the happiness he had put back into her own heart, keep his mood from slipping further.

He managed something resembling a shrug, yet somehow she recognised it as acceptance, and helped him up with a strong but caring grip on his arm. Maybe all he needed was a little company – and a voice to listen to that wasn't the morose, hateful one currently residing inside his head. She'd been there, lived with that voice for too long. She wouldn't let it consume him.

 

* * *

 

 

She grabbed a pizza, hauling him into the restaurant with her, refusing to let him out of her sight. She made him sit at her side, let the sounds and aromas of the restaurant surround him, the laughter, the joy, the oregano and red wine. When their food was ready, she held the box in one hand, his elbow in her other, and walked with him every step of the way back to her car. She led him into her own apartment, where she had intended to simply grab her laptop and a handful of DVDs, but the moment he stopped in her living room he dropped down on her couch, elbows on his knees, head down, looking more despondent than she'd ever seen. So instead, she headed back to her car, collected the pizza, and sat down beside him. She tugged the lid off the pizza box, pushing it back, and eased a slice of the pie out. When Henry refused to take it from her, she spun the box around until the lid was open before him, and put the slice on the greasy cardboard.

It was a late lunch for her. Judging by Henry's state, probably breakfast as well for him, but he still showed no interest in it.

"It's there when you're hungry." She took a slice for herself, and stood. "I'm going to make some tea, will you be okay?"

He waved her off with his hand, and resumed sitting glumly, staring into nothingness. His sombre mood terrified her. Nausea swirled in her stomach as she left the room, worry consuming her heart and making it ache for him. This wasn't Henry. She'd never seen him so down before, so completely lost. She didn't know how to help him. But she at least knew someone who might.

Once in her kitchen, Jo reached for the phone and dialed Abe. Keeping her voice low when he answered, she asked, "What's wrong with Henry?"

Abe sighed. "Stubborn mule won't tell me."

"Me either," Jo replied, frustrated she couldn't help him, frustrated that he wouldn't confide in her, unsure if she wanted to smack some sense into him and then stalk off, or hold him and never let go. "He's with me, at my apartment," she told him. "I'll keep an eye on him."

"Thanks, kid," Abe replied. "He's been like this since last night. One minute he was painting, the next he was off to the nearest bar, looking like his dog just died."

"Henry paints?" she asked, surprised by that. Sure she'd thought of his autopsy cuts like brush strokes, thanks to Lucas, but she'd never pictured him actually painting. On canvas. With something less… biological.

"Apparently," Abe replied, like it was new to him too. "The work he produced last night was something special."

"Huh," Jo replied. Hearing Henry shuffle around in the other room, she said, "I need to check on him, but I'll have him back safe to you tonight."

"We're lucky to have you."

Emotion trapped her words in her throat and she ended the call, Henry dragging his feet into her kitchen as she put the phone down on the table top.

"It occurred to me, uncharacteristically late, that I should help you with the tea."

"I can manage," she told him. "But you are welcome to watch – and correct my technique if you feel so inclined." She was teasing him, but someone had to lighten the mood, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be doctor downer. She gestured for him to sit at the kitchen counter, watching his every step.

"So, Henry," she began once he had taken a seat, "you paint?"

Henry sighed as he settled on the bar stool, looking uncomfortable on something not upholstered in leather. "You phoned Abe."

"Maybe I saw the paint stains on your hands," she told him while the tea brewed.

He glanced down and she saw the moment his eyes fell upon the faint brown staining his skin. "Very observant of you, detective." His words lacked their usual feeling, his voice flat, almost bored. She wasn't taking it personally. He was hurting. She needed to know why, and fix him.

Jo shrugged, and then gave him a guilty look. "But yes, I did call Abe." First. She'd only noticed the paint when he'd placed his hands on the white table as he'd slid onto the stool.

"Yes," he admitted, after a moment. "I have recently rediscovered my affinity for painting."

"Landscapes?"

"Portraits."

She nodded in appreciation. "Who did you paint last night?"

"An old friend," he replied.

"Did it help? Did it ease whatever is causing your sadness?"

He held her gaze while he considered the question, and she prepared herself for the answer she knew would deepen the cracks already forming in her heart.

"No, I think perhaps it only made the melancholy worse," he admitted.

"This friend, are they still alive?"

"No."

"I see," Jo replied in understanding. "I'm sorry."

His eyes flittered around her kitchen, purposely avoiding her gaze. "It was a long time ago."

She sat the mug of tea in front of him, and took a seat opposite. "Still, I'm sorry for your loss, Henry."

He nodded, his eyes dipping down to the steaming mug, still avoiding her.

"I've never seen you like this," Jo said gently. "What do you need? What helps?" When he didn't instantly reply, when he chose to glance up at the ceiling instead of meeting her eyes, she reached out and laid her hand over his, not linking their fingers, just letting her hand rest on the back of his. "Please let me help you," she implored.

"I…" He shook his head but as he did so he dropped his gaze, and met her eyes. "I don't know."

"Well, I know one thing," she began, letting the tips of her fingers draw feather-light circles on the back of his hand, hoping her touch might soften her next words. "Alcohol doesn't help. I know you think you just want to hit a bar and confide in a bottle, but you won't feel any better."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"You've…" She hesitated, swallowing down her emotions, forcing herself through it. "When I was drowning you pulled me out. Let me do the same for you."

He nodded mutely, but didn't argue, simply dipped his chin and focused on her hand as she caressed his, until the intimacy of her actions became apparent to her and she withdrew her hand, placed it on the table, but close enough that he could touch her if he needed to.

He sat nursing his tea, staring forlornly at anything except her face, and she sat with him, sipping her own mug, waiting for when he was ready, the cooling pizza in the other room swiftly becoming dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

Already feeling a bit overwhelmed by the clutter of antiques through the glass, Myka pushed open the door to the shop and stepped inside.

Pete trailed behind her, eyes darting around the interior as he tried to decide where to start. "I think we found Warehouse 14," he quipped.

She let out an exasperated puff of air. She couldn't argue with that. "Hello?" she called out.

"Hello?" a voice replied.

A figure stepped around an ornate French writing desk, similar to one Myka's father had in his bookstore. For a second, she could have sworn she smelled vanilla and almonds, that intoxicating scent of the breakdown of cellulose in a nineteenth century novel. Mostly, it smelled like home. Funny how one desk could make her think of her father, the bookstore he owned, make her want to pull out her phone and call her parents for a catch-up. Make her-

 _Oh._ No wonder she was thinking about family…

"What the…" Pete turned to Myka dumbstruck. "Did Artie mention anything to you about his dad having an antique store?"

"Uh…." Myka managed, her eyes fixed on the man walking up to them, her feet frozen in place by the surprise appearance of their boss's father.

"Are you two alright?"

Shaking herself out of her stupor, her brain kicked in. No, the voice wasn't quite right, the accent was wrong. And this man smiled too freely. Yet, before she could stop herself, she found herself asking, "I'm sorry, are you Izzy Weisfelt?"

"No, I'm Abe, Abraham Morgan, or Weinraub." He waved a dismissive hand. "Long story. And you are?"

"Myka Bering," she replied, distracted. "Do you have a brother?"

Abe cocked a bushy eyebrow. "Not that I'm aware of."

"You just look an awful like our friend's father."

"Actually, exactly like him," Pete added, taking a step closer to study Abe's face. He turned to Myka, his lips parted in surprise, and said, "Uncanny."

Myka nodded, her own mouth hanging open. Realising how she probably looked, she clamped her mouth shut, and took a second to collect her thoughts. "But that's not why we're here," she finally managed, getting back to business.

"Why are you here?" Abe asked, his patience fading.

"Antiques!"

Myka threw Pete a withering glare. "One in particular, actually," she said, both to Pete, as a reminder, and Abe.

"Okay," Abe said slowly. "Which one?" Extending his hands to indicate his collection, he added, "As you can see, I have a few."

"That's the problem," Pete said. "We're not _entirely_ sure."

Abe frowned. "You two are very strange, do you know that?"

"Yeah we get that a lot," Pete replied, his voice a little flatter now, the enormity of what lay ahead catching up with him.

She caught her partner's eye and gave him an encouraging smile. "Maybe something belonging to Houdini?" Myka suggested, more to Pete than to Abraham.

"Or David Copperfield," Pete said in response, getting into the zone.

Myka blinked, wondering exactly what zone he'd found himself in. Twilight, perhaps. "What?"

"Well he did make the Statue of Liberty disappear once."

"Oh, _that_ David Copperfield, right."

"Ooh! Or maybe Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility?"

"Okay, this time I _know_ you're talking about a fictional character. Do you?" Myka snarked him.

Abe raised a hand in the air, silencing them both, diverting their attention back to him. "Ignoring the Harry Potter question, I'm guessing you're looking for antiques belonging to magicians?"

"Yes?"

Abe looked at Myka, his eyebrows raising at her response. "Like I said, very strange," he told her.

Myka sighed. Except to the few in the know, the Warehouse didn't exist. Her job didn't exist. It was hard to explain what they were looking for when they couldn't be honest about what they did for a living. Or even knew what they were looking for. Artie had handed them a folder full of vague reports, two of the reports had mentioned this address, and soon they'd been winging their way from South Dakota to New York to track down an artifact that they simply knew existed. It could be anything, from a small, seemingly harmless pearl to a large, ornate full-length mirror. And what it did exactly – well, they were still trying to figure that out too.

"I don't have anything like what you're after."

Nodding, Myka asked, "Mind if we just browse for a bit?"

"Of course," Abe told her. "I'll be over there if you need me." Before turning away, he added, "Just don't break anything."

"We won't. Thank you."

She looped her arm around Pete's elbow and dragged him to a far corner.

"PDA!" he announced, louder than was necessary in the quiet shop.

Myka rolled her eyes. "It is not," she hissed, but she dropped his arm anyway and pretended to look at a patina-coated bronze statue of a horse. "Vibes?" she asked, referring to the feelings Pete got when something was about to ruin their entire day.

His features tightened. "Like I can't even begin to describe."

"So it's here then."

"Something is anyway." He looked around, concerned. "Something very, very bad."

Glancing around, she took in as much as she could, hoping that _something_ might catch her attention, draw her in. But nothing did. "Maybe we're thinking about this wrong," Myka mused. "Maybe it isn't about disappearing. Maybe it's more about resurrection?"

"So we're looking for… the cross Jesus was nailed to?" Pete looked around, before meeting her eyes and shaking his head. "Not really the kind of vibes I'm getting. And I think something like that might stick out even in a place like this. Next suggestion?"

She pursed her lips in thought. "Okay, what about something smaller, like a phoenix?"

"Still feels too happy," Pete told her. "Mega heavy vibes happening here, Myka. Like I wanna throw myself in front of a bus just to escape it."

"Do me a favour and don't do that, 'kay?"

He gave her a weak smile. "'kay."

"Okay, so bad vibes," she repeated. "We know it's here, we're just gonna have to go through everything in this store systematically…" Myka said as she perused the table in front of her.

"Yawn," Pete announced. "Or we just try the straight-up approach."

They both turned to look at Abe, who looked away the moment he was caught staring at them, but it was clear on his face that he'd overheard their every word.

"Do you smell fudge when there is no fudge?" Pete asked, the two agents now walking over to the bewildered man.

"Do I need to call the cops?" Abe asked, clearly concerned by their behavior. "I'm friends with a detective, you know."

"I really hate these stupid questions," Pete muttered.

Pulling her badge out, Myka held it out for him to see. "We're secret service, we're investigating a… disturbance."

Abe visibly paled. It didn't surprise her. People rarely reacted well to that reveal.

"Well everything is fine here," Abe said, his voice wavering, his eyes darting down to a carpet beneath his feet, and then up towards the exit, everywhere but the agents in front of him. "No disturbances of any kind."

"O-kay," Pete said, not buying it.

 

They'd pushed too hard; he was shutting down. Whatever he knew, he wouldn't be giving the information up just yet. Myka was tired, hungry, and needed more to go on. A good sugar hit and a little research sounded like as good a plan as any. Breaking the man before them, or snagging and bagging every item in the shop, did not. "We'll be back," Myka said, before turning on her heel and heading out the shop, dragging Pete with her.

"Pete," she hissed once they were on the sidewalk, "What the hell? Tell me he wasn't the splitting image of Artie's dad." She couldn't get past it; it was eating away at her brain.

Pete nodded, clearly just as intrigued, but confused, as she was. "There's more going on here than Artie's letting on."

"Yeah," Myka agreed. She looked through the glass door, and the back of the man making a hasty retreat into the depths of the shop. "And I wanna know what."

 

* * *

 

 

"Hello?" Jo said into her phone. She was still sitting opposite Henry, who was still staring sadly into his tepid tea.

"Jo, listen to me," Abe said by way of greeting, the fear in his tone giving her goosebumps. "I need you to do me a favor and keep Henry there tonight."

"Of course," she replied. Her breath hitched as she asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah, but Henry isn't," Abe replied, his voice grim. "Put him on?"

Sliding the phone across the smooth table towards Henry, she nudged him with the end of it to get his attention and said, "Abe."

He picked it up and brought it to his ear. "I'm fine, Abraham," he said, but his tone belied his words.

"No, you're not," Abe told him. "The secret service were just here, sniffing around, talking about things I shouldn't speak of over the phone. I'm fine, but you stay there tonight, you hear me? I'll stop by the morgue tomorrow."

"Perhaps you should come stay here too?" He looked up at Jo who nodded.

"No, I'm gonna keep an eye on things here."

"Abraham-"

"Henry, listen to me, stay with Jo. We'll talk tomorrow once I know more."

Jo was already on her cell, making a call. He stayed on the phone, listening while Jo spoke.

"Hanson? It's Jo, do me a favor, put a protective detail on Henry's place? I can't explain why, just keep an eye on Abe for me tonight? Thanks, I owe you." She hung up and gave Henry a tight smile. "He's in good hands. Stay here."

"I don't like this," Henry told her.

"Do you know what's going on?"

"Nothing good," Henry said grimly. Into the phone he said, "Jo's put a protective detail on you."

"I heard," Abe replied dryly. "Thank her for me."

He ended the call and stood, carefully placing the cordless phone back on charge. "I don't like this," he repeated.

"We'll check up on him during the night. He'll be fine, Henry."

He didn't look convinced.

 

* * *

 

 

Myka gripped the steering wheel. What next? She glanced to Pete, who sat staring out the window and into a pizza place. She sighed. Oh why not.

She was just about to suggest they head in for a quick slice when her buzzing Farnsworth pulled her attention away from the food. Pete leaned over as she snapped it open, getting into her personal space until both their faces could be seen by Artie.

"Updates?" Their boss asked.

"It's the place, the artifact's there," Myka said, resolute. "But, oh my God Artie, you could have warned us it was an antiques store."

"And ruin the surprise?"

Myka huffed in annoyance.

"Speaking of surprises," Pete cut in. "You also could have told us your dad has a twin."

"My father is an only-child."

"Uh, except he really isn't," Myka told him. "Might want to have Claudia run two names: Abraham Morgan, and Abraham Weinraub."

"Why?" Artie asked Myka.

"Because Pete's not kidding, he could pass for your father. It was-"

"Scary, but kinda cool," Pete finished.

"I'll pass the names on to Claudia," he groused in acceptance. "First, I need you two to snag-"

"Bag, and tag," Pete cut in. "Yeah, yeah we know. It'd help if you could narrow it down for us a bit. That place was a baby Warehouse."

Picking up a folder, Artie opened it and rattled off the information he'd gathered. "Man seemingly dies and the body disappears. Within seconds a man appears in the East River, naked."

"We know this," Pete muttered.

Ignoring Pete's attitude, he continued, "My guess would be resurrection artifact, with a transportation ability. If the man ages, could be from Greek mythology, Tithonus perhaps. Or a phoenix with a twist-"

"Pretty sure I got wasted on that drink a few years back."

"Pete," Myka hissed.

"- Or the Holy Grail," Artie continued, still ignoring Pete.

"The Holy Grail?" Myka interrupted, her voice lilting in excitement.

"Myka," Pete hissed, knowing if he got too facetious the worst that would happen is she'd punch his arm. She only ever socked him in the face when she was under the influence of an artifact. So far there were no signs either of them had been whammied.

"Head back to the shop, see what jumps out," Artie finished.

"Hopefully not literally." Pete shuddered.

Myka snapped the Farnsworth closed. "Tomorrow," she said to Pete. They currently had too little to go on, and a man who wasn't talking. They needed a way to get Abraham to trust them. Tonight they could devise a plan. She caught Pete's eye and grinned. "Right now? Food. I'm starving."

"One of my favorite f-words." He leered at her. "You know my other favorite."

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up." But she couldn't suppress her smirk.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Jo came down her stairs the next morning to find Henry sitting up on the couch, where she had left him six hours earlier, staring into space, phone clutched tight in his hand, it was clear he hadn't got much - if any - sleep. She had noticed the dark smudged marring the skin beneath his eyes the previous day, but now they were deep bruises, his eyes bleary and red. Sadness clamped around her heart, squeezing so tight she found herself clutching at the material of her robe, just above her chest.

"Abe okay?" Jo asked as she moved over to where he sat, still holding tight to her robe as though she was keeping it together. But it was her heart she was trying to keep from falling apart, Henry she was trying to keep together.

He glanced down at the phone in his hand, his fingers wrapped tight around the plastic, knuckles almost white from the strength of his grip. "Yes, he's fine."

"And you?"

"The important thing is Abraham is fine."

Jo sighed. "You're important too, Henry." She sat down beside him, leaning her robe-clad side against his. "Don't forget that."

He nodded mutely.

She glanced up at him and frowned at his appearance. "When did you start dying your hair?"

"I don't."

She looked over her shoulder, over the top of the couch, saw the sunlight filtering in through the blinds, and considered perhaps it was just the light giving his hair a slightly red hue. Her eyes drifted back to him, took in the stubble peppering his jaw, less groomed than normal, and dipped down to his wrinkled shirt. "You still keep a clean shirt in your office?"

"Yes."

"You wanna shower before we go?" She needed to get showered, dressed, but when short on time she could manage it all in fifteen minutes, and get her coffee from the break room once at work.

"No."

"Breakfast then? I make a mean waffle."

"I'm fine."

She raked a hand through her messy hair, and then pressed her side a little more firmly against his. Her hands rested on her thighs and she stared straight ahead, the press of her leg, her arm, her hip, against his keeping the connection even if she couldn't meet his eyes again.

They sat in silence for a while, her body leaning into his, like perhaps her warmth could shift the dark cloud from over his head and move it on its way. When it started to engulf her, she nudged him with her knee and said, "Come on, let's get you to Abe."

He nodded, stood, and she moved with him, waiting until he was on his feet and balanced before wrapping him in an embrace he didn't return. He stood with his arms hanging limp at his sides while she held him tight, her chin resting on his shoulder, her lips near his ear. "I wish I knew how to help you."

"You are helping," he promised, but his voice was so flat she doubted his words.

 

* * *

 

Jo sat herself in his office, having hauled an armful of work down from her desk to his. It was his observations that had led to her being saddled with this case so she figured she may as well do the paperwork in his company. That, and she hated the idea of him being alone. Whatever was eating at him had left him a ghost. He was stuck with her whether he liked it or not - and she had no clue which one it was. He had remained quiet, working through his own reports, his face blank, just going through the motions. When he stood to assist Lucas out in the morgue, Jo switched seats, occupying his so she could keep an eye on him. It was only when she saw Abe step off the elevator that she excused herself, giving the older man's arm a gentle squeeze as she passed by. He nodded in return, giving her a tight smile as she made her way to the elevator. She spent the ride up to the precinct agitated, but aware the space was needed, for a few minutes at least. Whatever was going on, she trusted Abe to fill her in once it was necessary.

And perhaps he might even explain why, beneath the morgue lighting, Henry's hair still seemed redder than usual.

 

* * *

 

"Can we talk in here?" Abe asked once the door to Henry's office was closed and it was just the two of them.

"It's secure."

"Good." He took a seat and stared Henry down across the desk. "They came back this morning, the strange secret service agents."

"Are they looking for me?"

"They don't seem to know what they're looking for, but they did say something strange."

"Which was?"

"They asked if anyone had been acting unusual recently. If I had noticed a difference in someone who frequented the store."

"Have you?"

Abe cocked an eyebrow. "Have you looked in a mirror?"

Henry shook his head. "Can't say my appearance has been of concern."

"Uh, well it should be," Abe told him.

"Abraham, what are you talking about?"

"You look different."

"Not possible."

"Your eyes are lighter," Abe noted. "And there are flecks of red in your hair."

Henry frowned. Pushing his chair back, he stood and walked out of his office, towards the restrooms. Abe followed, prepared to be at his side when he saw it too.

"This isn't possible," Henry breathed into the mirror once the door to the men's room had closed behind Abe. His fingertips grazed the red strands of hair, isolating them, plucking one out. "Jo mentioned something earlier, about my hair. I should have paid more attention." He let out a rueful sigh.

"Look at your eyes."

He did, and inhaled a sharp gasp. "What does this mean?" He met Abe's eyes in the mirror. "What is happening?"

"You've got microscopes, fancy equipment, see what science can tell you," Abe suggested. He extracted a business card from his pocket and held it up. "I'm going to have a little chat with my two new friends."

Henry's eyes fixed on the reflection of the card in the glass. "I don't feel right about this, Abe."

"I don't think you feel right at all."

 

* * *

 

"I ran the names you gave me," Artie told Myka via the Farnsworth.

She sat in the car, alone, Farnsworth held up in front of her, Artie's face in black and white taking up the round screen. "The resemblance is weird, right?"

Artie nodded. "I'm going to need a sample of his blood."

"Artie!"

"I need to compare it to my father's."

"I know but.. I can't just ask him for blood. He already thinks we're crazy."

"I don't care how you get it, Myka. Just get it."

"Artie!"

But he'd already cut the connection, leaving Myka sitting in the car utterly appalled.

The door opened to the passenger's side, and Pete slipped in beside her, pretzel for him in one hand, coffee for her in the other. Lunch. It would have to get them both through the next few hours.

"Why's your face all scrunchy?" he asked as she took the coffee from him.

She took a sip, savoured it, tried to calm herself. When that didn't work she found herself saying through gritted teeth, "Artie just ordered me to get a sample of Abraham's blood."

"Good luck."

"Ugh, Pete." She turned to him, anger flaring in her eyes.

"What?"

"I'm not going to take blood from him, what the hell is Artie thinking?" Myka groused. "Like, what? Ooh, sorry, I tripped, and jabbed you with a needle?"

Pete shrugged. "Why don't you just ask him?"

"What?" Myka asked, surprised.

"Y'know, just ask if you can draw some blood. Maybe he'll agree."

"Okay, no, Pete. He won't just agree. He thinks we're insane." She sighed.

"Fine. You focus on finding the artifact and I'll see what I can do about the blood."

Myka looked horrified at the idea. "No, no I don't think that's a good idea."

A knocking on the window startled them both. They glanced up to see Abraham waving at them.

"Why don't we just try being honest. I mean, he might be family after all," Pete told her.

Sighing, Myka opened the door and stepped out. "We were, uh, just coming to browse your store."

"Figured out what you're after yet?"

"The Holy Grail, perhaps," Pete said, exiting the car.

"I'm certain I don't have that."

"Look, I don't know how else to explain this," Myka began, keeping her voice low, glancing around as she spoke, ensuring no one overheard. "Someone died and their body disappeared. Seconds later a man popped up in the East River - _alive_. Different witnesses from both events suggest it's the same person. The man who walked out of the river has been spotted entering this store. Pete got a vibe-"

"A vibe?" Abe asked, his voice calm despite the fear blazing in his eyes.

"I get vibes," Pete said, as though that explained it.

"There's probably a pill you can take for that," Abe said dryly.

"I wish," Pete muttered.

"Anyway," Myka cut in, "We think something in your store is causing someone to uh..." She scrunched up her face. Sometimes she hated how ridiculous her job made her sound. "Rise from the dead."

"There ain't no zombies in my shop," Abe told them. "Trust me, I think I'd know." He eyed them both suspiciously. "I think it's best you move on. You won't find your answers here."

"If we could just-"

"No," Abe told Myka firmly. "Go."

He stood his ground, outside his store, arm folded, refusing to let them past, refusing to move.

"Fine," Myka surrendered.

"Fine?" Pete echoed, surprised.

"For now," Myka said under her breath, leading him away.

 

* * *

 

They knew. Or they thought they knew. They knew enough for it to be a problem, even if it seemed they hadn't quite narrowed it down to Henry. They would. It had never been this close before, not in his lifetime, not that he'd ever been told about, anyway. There were plans in place for such an event, an exit strategy. Abe hated to consider it. But he had no choice. He would have to take only what he could carry without drawing suspicion, have Jo meet him somewhere with Henry, and leave. They'd have to go. Where? He didn't know.

And what of his hair? Why the sudden flecks of red? His eyes? How was this possible? His pops was immortal, and that shouldn't be possible either, but it was. The changes worried him, what they meant, what this was the start of.

But what worried him more was the knowledge Jo would not travel with them. How could they ask her to do that? With Henry's mental state already so fragile he loathed to break that news to his father.

He grabbed what he could, threw it into the smallest, least conspicuous bag he could dig out from storage, and began planning their escape.

 

* * *

 

"Something big is going on here," Myka murmured once they had enough distance between themselves and the shop.

"My Spidey senses are tingling," Pete agreed.

"Maybe…" Myka trailed off, brow creasing in thought.

Pete turned to look at her, her pursed lips, the little frown lines between her eyes, and despite her confusion he could see the pieces clicking into place. "What?"

"Maybe there's a way to solve two puzzles."

"Okay, I'm listening," Pete told her.

Eyes widening in triumph, plan firmly in place in her mind, she snapped open her Farnsworth, and simply said, "Claudia."

"Sup, homies?" Claudia's smiling face lit up the round screen, radiant even in sepia. Trailer barked in the background.

"Hey, Claude," Myka replied brightly. "Question for you."

"Shoot," Claudia replied.

"Izzy, Artie's dad, where's he living these days?"

"Uh, Philly? I think. Why?"

"Can you check and get back to me?"

"Of course," Claudia replied. "Why?"

"We think we found family neither he nor Artie knew existed."

"Really?" Claudia asked, her mood brightening further.

"Really," Myka replied.

"Squeal of delight!" Claudia exclaimed. "I'm on it."

"Thank you."

"What now?" Pete asked once the Farnsworth had closed.

Myka shrugged. "Now we wait."

"So… Pizza?"

"Your answer to everything." She threw him a look. "Just give her a few minutes. Claudia's on it."

She led him back to the car, throwing him the keys since she'd refused him pizza. Pete managed to find a radio station he liked and filled the parked car with music while they waited. Half a pop song later and Myka's Farnsworth was buzzing. Pete leaned in to her, until both their faces could be seen by Claudia.

"Okay so Izzy moved from Philly last year."

"To?" Pete asked.

Claudia grinned. "Brooklyn."

Myka's eyes widened in surprise. "You're kidding?"

"Nope."

Claudia rattled off the address of a small music school in Brooklyn, and then bid them good luck, her own excitement evident in her shining eyes.

"I know how we get Abraham to trust us," Myka told Pete.

"Lure him to the antique shop," Pete replied, catching up. "Izzy, I mean."

"Yup."

"So what are we waiting for?"

"Uh, you're driving," Myka pointed out.

"Oh! Right."

 

* * *

 

It had taken Claudia via the Farnsworth to convince Izzy how important this meeting was. Despite the deceit she'd used to reconnect Izzy and Artie after thirty years apart, the man seemed rather fond of her now – in his own grizzly kind of way. So if Claudia agreed he might have a brother, living mere miles from him, he saw no harm in meeting the man.

"You need to go in first," Myka prodded Izzy as they stood outside the store, all three a little hesitant.

Izzy wasn't convinced. "If this is Arthur's idea of a joke…"

"I think we both know joking is not something Artie's exactly skilled at," Pete reminded him.

"Claudia's then."

"Please," Myka said gently. "Trust us? We're as surprised as you are, but… well, you'll see why. It's uncanny."

"Fine, fine," he groused in his thick accent. He pushed open the door and stepped into the shop.

"We're closing," Abe announced as he stepped into the room. If there had been more to his sentence it was lost the moment his eyes fell on the man standing before him.

Izzy's eyes narrowed beneath his thick eyebrows. "This can't be."

Abe stood, frozen in place, lips parted, completely lost for words.

"Abe, meet Izzy," Pete said, quietly stepping into the shop.

"Brother?" Izzy asked, awe lacing his voice.

"We'd even go as far as to say twin brother," Pete spoke up again.

Myka elbowed him. "Ssshhh," she hissed.

"What is this?" Abe asked, his eyes never leaving the mirror image standing before him. He took a step closer and brought a hand to his chest. "I have a brother?" Abe murmured, like he was trying to believe it despite the proof before his very eyes.

Their voices, their faces, they were the same.

"I have a brother," he said, his voice firmer this time.

Izzy nodded, and for a moment the two men stood in silence, studying one another, identical smiles forming on their lips.

"Abe," Abe said finally, holding out his hand. Izzy shook it, though the two men were tentative.

"Izzy."

"I never knew you existed," Abe admitted, his hand still clasped in his brother's.

"Nor I you."

"We're not here to cause any problems, Abe," Myka said, keep her voice as even and calm as possible, being careful not to spook either of them. "We just neutralise artifacts and stop them from hurting people. Is someone close to you being hurt?"

Abe snapped his attention away from the mirror image of himself and turned his shining eyes to Myka. "Okay, you have my attention. But Izzy and I are going to need a few minutes alone, to talk. Then I'll answer your questions."

Myka nodded. "We'll wait here." She looked at her partner. "And Pete promises not to touch anything."

"But Myka," he whined, "have you seen the stuff in this place?"

Myka lifted an eyebrow.

"Fine," he huffed.

With a nod, Abe gesture for Izzy to follow him up the stairs. Once they had disappeared, Myka threw a pair of purple gloves to Pete, and snapped on her own pair. "Okay, let's go touch stuff."

"I love you."

 

* * *

 

"Henry?" Jo called, entering the quiet morgue and glancing around for her partner. She and Hanson had been stuck interrogating a suspect for much longer than she liked. She was exhausted, frustrated by the lack of answers, but mostly she was worried - about Henry. It had been hard to concentrate, her mind drifting to her partner, until Hanson had nudged her with his knee and tilted his chin up, towards the door. _Go. Check on the doc._ The words had been silent, but the message was clear. Spotting Henry's assistant, she altered her course through the room. "Hey, Lucas," she said as she stepped over to where he sat munching on a sandwich and scrawling words in a report.

"Henry's not here," Lucas told her between bites.

"Where'd he go?"

"Home for the day, about an hour ago."

Jo's heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. "You sure?"

"He left, I assumed for home. Everything okay?"

"How did he seem?"

"Um…" Lucas pondered his answer. "Much like yesterday, a downer, kinda snappy. Seemed sad about something."

Jo sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

"Did you two break up?"

"What?" Jo asked in surprise. "No! We're not even… no!"

"Sorry." Lucas raised his hands in surrender, bread crumbs drifting down to his desk from one hand. "Just, you two have been different recently, I thought maybe…"

"You thought wrong, okay? We're just friends."

"Maybe that's why he's sad," Lucas mumbled around his food.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said maybe that's the reason he's been down lately," Lucas said, braver now. "Big guy needs love too."

"I—Lucas…" She pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes closing as she felt a tension headache coming on. "We are not having this conversation."

Lucas shrugged. "Maybe you and Henry should though."

Jo blew out a breath in annoyance. "Look, I need to find Henry."

"Try his place," Lucas told her retreating form. "Or the nearest bar."

Jo froze. Spinning on her heel she fixed worried eyes on Lucas. "God I hope you're wrong."

"Me too," Lucas said quietly.

 

* * *

 

"You got kids?" Abe asked Izzy as they descended the stairs. Having had some time alone to get over the initial shock, they'd caught each other up on their childhoods, how they'd come to be raised by the families they had. Their childhoods couldn't have been more different, yet here they were, in the same city, in the same country, both sharing a love of the piano, amongst other common interests. It was surreal. And the greatest day of their lives.

"A son, named Arthur," Izzy proclaimed proudly. "And you?"

"No, no kids. I have a Henry instead."

"A… what?"

Abe shrugged. "It's a long story."

At the bottom of the stairs he met the eyes of the two agents were stood, hands behind their backs, looking utterly guilty despite their best attempts to feign innocence.

"Listen, you asked me if anyone had been acting out of the ordinary lately?"

"Yes," Myka replied.

"What exactly did you mean by that?"

"Why, what have you witnessed?" Myka asked.

Abe sighed. "You better come downstairs."

"You trust us?" Myka asked, her voice tentative.

"You helped reunite me with a brother I didn't even know I had. Maybe you can help a friend."

"He's been acting different," Myka surmised as she and Pete followed him deeper into the shop.

"Yeah," Abe said.

"In what way?"

"Just different. He's been painting, and ever since he started his mood's just gone downhill."

"Van Gogh's easel?" Myka pondered, looking to Pete who half nodded, half shrugged in response. "Can we see his work?"

Abe kicked the carpet back, and then tugged the trap door up, revealing the stairs hidden beneath.

"Cool," Pete said, impressed. "Myka, we gotta get one of these."

They followed Abe down into the laboratory, all three letting out little noises of amazement the deeper they moved into the room.

"You have your own laboratory?" Myka asked.

"My friend is a doctor." He pointed at the painting. "And an artist."

"Oh no," Myka breathed out, her eyes falling on the unfinished portrait.

"What?" Pete asked.

"I know why your friend has been acting strange," Myka told Abe. She tugged out an evidence bag from her back pocket, and held it open. "Pete, the paintbrush."

"Okay." He picked it up with a gloved hand and dropped it into the bag. Sparks flew out the top and the two agents turned away, shielding their eyes.

Abe stared on in wonder. "What just happened?"

Izzy clasped his shoulder with a firm grip. "I'm still trying to understand it myself, and I was let in on this secret years ago."

"I've read about this artifact," Myka told the three men. "Branwell Brontё's paintbrush. It causes the artist to feel worthless, to turn to opiates and alcohol, and - if not stopped in time - commit suicide."

"That's one for the dark vault, I hope," Pete said, his jaw clenched tight.

"Right next to Sylvia Plath's typewriter."

Pete visibly shuddered.

"Wait," Abe said, raising a hand to silence them. "So you're telling me things can have...what? Power over people?"

Myka nodded. "Your friend should be fine now. We've neutralised the artifact, he should be back to his old self."

To most people, it would make no sense. But pieces started snapping into place, and hope flared within Abe. He reached for the phone and called the morgue. When he got no answer he called Jo.

"Martinez."

"Is Henry with you?"

"No. I was hoping he was with you, actually," she replied, and through the phone line Abe could hear her fear. "Is Henry in danger?" she asked, her voice uneven.

"Yes but…" He looked at the agents. "From himself."

"He wouldn't hurt himself, would he?"

"He might not be in control," Abe told her gently. "It's kind of complicated, and I promise by the end of the night you will know everything I know, but for now I need you to trust me."

"Always," Jo promised without hesitation.

"I'll meet you at the usual spot," Abe told her.

"Abe…" Her voice wavered as his words sank in.

"It's okay, kid. Meet me there." He ended the call and turned to his companions.

"Alright, listen you two," he told the agents. "You here to take anyone away for testing?"

"What?" Pete asked. "Like experiment on?"

"Yeah."

"No," Myka promised. "We're here to free people from the control of artifacts, that's all."

He considered them for a moment, studying their faces, their intentions, and then nodded in acceptance. "I have to go pick up my friend. Wait outside."

"Why?" Pete questioned.

"Because we might need something else zapped in one of those bags."

"We'll wait," Myka promised.

"Izzy, please stay. I'd really like you to meet someone."

"Who?"

"My father," he said gently. "Henry."

Izzy nodded, a faint smile tugging at his grizzled lips. "I will wait."

Abe ushered his brother upstairs, shooed the agents outside, and then left them. He made sure they weren't following and sped off towards the East River, and hopefully Henry.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, God, Henry," Jo murmured, dropping to her knees on the stony shore beside Henry's still form. He was dry and fully-clothed on the bank of the river, but unconscious.

"Henry, can you hear me?"

She ran her fingers over his cheek. His skin was cold. She leaned over him, pressed her ear to his chest. He was alive. But only just.

"Henry?" she tried again, but he didn't stir.

"Jo!" Abe called to her. She turned to find him stumbling in the dark, making his way over the uneven ground to get to them.

"He's unconscious, Abe. I don't know how long he's been here. What do we do?"

"Vitals?"

"Not good." She clutched at Henry's clammy hand and held it. "Do we call 911, or…?"

Abe shook his head. "I think the best thing to do is wait it out. Here."

"What happened?"

"From the info I've just gathered, probably a morphine overdose."

"Henry attempted suicide?"

"I'm guessing he doped himself up, went wandering, and something in his drug-addled brain told him wading into the East River, drowning, and wading back out would be a faster way out of this." He'd almost made it to the water too. Almost.

"But why?"

"It's complicated."

"It always is with you two," Jo bit out.

He sat on the shore, opposite Jo, and held his father's other hand. His eyes softened as he studied her; when she finally met his eyes, letting him see how raw her fear was, he said gently, "You know about the gun, about Henry's curse."

"You know I do, Yes."

"Well, what if I told you I might have found a way to cure his condition?"

"How?" Jo breathed out.

"It's best I tell you both at the same time."

Frustration tightened her already pained features, but then she nodded in acceptance. With carefully chosen words, she asked, "Do we need to… help him along?"

Abe felt for his pulse. "No. Any minute now."

"Is he okay?" a woman asked.

Jo and Abe looked at each other, trepidation in their eyes, before turning to the man and woman walking over to them. When Abe turned back to her it was clear he recognized them.

"This is your friend, right?" Pete asked.

Abe sighed. "This is my pops, actually." He nodded at Jo, letting her know it was okay to speak such things. "Henry."

"My partner," Jo added. She squeezed his hand, but Henry didn't respond and she knew it wouldn't be long now. Bringing her other hand to his face, she caressed his cheek with her knuckles, grazing them with affection over his uneven, cold skin. Leaning in, she whispered into his ear, "It's okay, Henry. We're here. You're not alone."

"Overdose?" Myka asked gently, kneeling down to feel for his pulse.

"My best guess," Abe agreed.

"He's going to disappear, isn't he?" Myka asked.

Jo eased back a little, her hand now cupping his face, her thumb sliding over his jaw. She met Abe's eyes, and nodded at Myka. "He's dying," she said, her voice breaking. It never got easier, seeing him die. Even though she knew he would be back it was always difficult watching her partner, the man she cared deeply for, take his last breath.

A familiar rattle sounded in his chest; a moment of absolute stillness surrounded them, all four silent as they crouched beside the body, as life was extinguished. Before anyone could speak, a bright light engulfed Henry's body, and then he was gone. Jo pulled her hands back and clutched them in her lap, allowing a moment to take a breath and remind herself it was okay. He would be okay.

Pete faltered, falling back a little, putting his hands out behind him to stabilise himself. "Whoa."

"Does he do that a lot?" Myka asked.

Abe stood, and sighed. "Yeah." He pointed them towards the water. "Keep an eye out there."

No sooner had he spoken, a figure splashed to the surface, spluttering. He looked around, spotted them, and then began to move through the frigid water. He swam towards them, and once he was able to stand it was obvious he was stark naked.

"He dies and is reborn in water?" Myka asked Abe.

"Yeah," Abe admitted.

"Since when?" Myka asked.

"1814, when he was shot. I was hoping you might take a look at the gun?"

"We'd love to," Myka told him.

"And you're not going to take him away?"

"You have our word," Pete promised.

Jo met Henry at the edge of the water, handing him the towel Abe had brought along. A sad smile played on her lips. "What happened?" she whispered.

Henry shook his head. He glanced over her shoulder at the couple beside Abe. "I don't wish to discuss it here."

"Henry, you died of a goddamn overdose," she said, her voice still low, but rising with each word. "We're discussing this whether you want to or not."

"I want to," he promised. "I just need to figure out why."

"Why you OD'd?"

He nodded. "What brought on the depression?" He dried himself off, Jo keeping her eyes locked on his face as the towel moved over his skin. Dry enough, he wrapped it around his waist and held it secure.

"I think we can answer that," Myka told him, her voice gentle, her own eyes struggling to stay above his chest. "But perhaps back at the shop?"

Henry looked to Abe. "I feel I've missed something."

"Oh, you have no idea."

 

* * *

 

In the back of Abe's car, next to Jo where she could keep an eye on him, the two agents trailing in their own car, Henry did his best to explain what had happened. "Morphine," he admitted. "Lethal dose. I couldn't control the urge to drink, to take opiates. So I did what I needed to do to die, hoping when I came back this malaise would be gone. I'm not sure how I ended up at the river, although I can guess. I'm glad you two found me before anyone else did."

"Has the depression passed?" Jo asked.

"It has," he promised her.

"There might be more to why it's gone, Henry," Abe told him from the front.

"And that would be?"

"Okay, this is going to sound strange..."

"Stranger than my life?"

"No," Abe said after a moment. "About the same."

"Who are those people?"

"Agents Bering and Lattimer. They're Warehouse agents, and before you ask what that is, don't. I'll explain as best I can," he groused.

"Are they here for me?" Henry asked, fear lacing his tone.

"Actually no. They're here for your flintlock, only they don't know that."

"What?"

"Yeah, pretty much the question of the past few days."

Henry rubbed at his temples. "Why do they want the pistol?"

"Because they knew someone connected to the antique store had been dying and disappearing. It seems you've managed to hit the headlines, in a vague enough way that it only stuck out as something significant to the agents."

"I shouldn't be concerned then?"

"Nah, you're fine."

"Please continue."

"So they came here looking for whatever was causing someone to disappear, and in the midst of that investigation I showed them your painting."

"Branwell?"

"Mmmhmmm. They recognised the paintbrush you'd been using as his own."

"How on earth did you end up with one of his paintbrushes?"

"It was part of an estate, of a man who drank himself to death. Not a coincidence."

"For the record, Branwell died from tuberculosis."

"But his depression and lack of self-worth leached into the brush, affecting any who used it."

"Can they undo it?"

"Already have. They dropped it into a real neat bag, sparks flew out the top, and the antique - uh, sorry, artifact - was.. what did they call it? Neutralised!"

"Do they think this bag might be useful with the pistol?"

"Sure do."

"Wait," Jo interrupted. "Are you saying they can… neutralise the gun, and cure Henry's condition?"

"They seem to think so, yes," Abe replied.

"Henry," Jo said softly, dropping her hand to his knee to get his complete attention. "Think about all the consequences first, please."

"I am," he promised. "I might be cured. I might be mortal again. Or the years might catch up with me on the spot, and I might become nothing more than dust on the laboratory floor."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Jo told him. She held his eyes, emotion shining in them as tears threatened to fall. He covered her hand with his own, eased his fingers between hers, and squeezed. She clung to him, the strength of her grip saying everything she couldn't.

"Talk to the agents, Dad. I trust them."

"Why?" Henry questioned, tearing his eyes from Jo to meet his son's in the rear-view mirror. "You've been very quick to trust these people."

"They, uh, their boss, he's my nephew."

"What?" Jo and Henry both exclaimed, eyes wide in shock.

Abe chuckled. "It's a long story."

"Start now," Henry demanded.

"I have a brother. A twin, to be exact. His name is Izzy. Artie, his son, is their boss."

Henry squeezed Jo's hand, taking some of her strength, before managing an uneven, "Abe, I assure you, when Abigail and I found you, we had no-"

"I know, pops," Abe said gently. "It's okay. I'm…" Abe batted away tears. "He lives in the city. All this time, he's been right here."

"Oh, Abe."

"He's waiting at home. I want you to meet him."

Henry sucked in a deep breath, astounded by all the information. "Are you okay?" Henry asked gently.

"I feel kinda nauseated," Abe admitted. "Is that normal?"

Jo chuckled softly, hand still nestled, snug, in Henry's. "Pretty normal, I think."

He pulled up outside the shop, drying his eyes before withdrawing the key from the ignition. "So let's go talk to these two, see what other miracles they can perform, eh?"

 

* * *

 

Jo let Henry walk on ahead. She had allowed her hand to slip out of his, with a sense of regret and loss that she hoped would be fleeting. Exiting the car from opposite sides, Henry had lengthened his strides to meet Abe at the entrance to the store, while Jo had hung back, unsure if a family reunion was about to take place, and needing to give them a little privacy, at least for the initial meeting. She glanced at Myka and Pete as they waited on the sidewalk, watching Pete talking low into Myka's ear, Myka batting his arm and pushing him away.

When that didn't produce the desired result, Myka punched him square in the arm.

"Ow!" Pete exclaimed.

Myka caught Jo's eye and smiled. "It's okay, he likes it."

Holding his arm, Pete cracked a grin. "I totally do."

"I'm sorry," Jo began, stepping over to them. "Are you two…"

"Together?" Pete finished. When Jo nodded, he said, "Depends what kind of day she's having when you ask her. But yeah, she loves me."

"You loved me first," Myka responded, lips curling up, eyes sparkling.

"And, uh… can I ask? Does it affect your working relationship?"

"Nah, Mykes has a strict no PDA at work- wait, why?" Pete narrowed his eyes. "You got a thing for your partner?"

"Just hypothetically…"

"Listen, it's fine," Myka assured her. "I saw how you touched him earlier. Nothing has to change while on the job. Pete and I have always been-"

"-best friends, finish each other's sandwiches-types."

"More like you eat all of yours and then move onto mine, and the cookies too," Myka snarked.

"The point is, we've always had a connection."

"A synchronicity."

"Always had each other's backs."

"Nothing's changed because we've seen each other naked."

"Although I'm guessing you've already seen Henry naked," Pete teased.

"Yeah," Jo admitted. "Hard not to when you haul his butt out of the East River."

"Don't let the whole being partners thing stop you from getting what you want."

"Aawww you wanted me," Pete said, earning him another hard whack on the arm from Myka.

"Foreplay," Pete mouthed.

Jo did her best not to react. "And you think you can cure Henry?"

"We simply neutralise the artifact causing his immortality."

"And you can do that?" She just... she needed to be sure. A cure, but not a loss. She couldn't lose him.

"Well, yeah, if we have the right artifact. The purple goo fixes all," Pete said.

"Will he die?" Jo asked, her voice soft.

"Because he's over two hundred years old?" Myka asked.

"Yeah."

Myka considered it for a moment. "It should just reinstate his mortality. Restart the aging process, but, listen, to be honest, there's no way we can know for sure. None of us have any experience with this kind of artifact. Artie is looking into it."

"Abe's nephew," Jo whispered.

Myka smiled brightly. "Trust me, that information was just as surprising to us."

"Just, do me a favor before we go in there? Make sure Henry understands. I'm not ready to lose him."

Myka touched her arm. "I promise."

"You three gonna stand out there all night?"

Jo smiled at Abe's voice. "I guess the family reunion is happening later."

"Or maybe you're supposed to be part of it," Myka replied sagely.

She kept her features blank as Myka's words sank in, praying the hope bubbling within her wasn't already overflowing.

 

* * *

 

"This is it," Henry said once they were all down in the laboratory. He held the pistol out for them to see, but it was clear he was not offering it to them. It was a firm but silent: look, don't touch.

"Do you have the bullet as well?" Myka asked.

Henry frowned. "No. When I was reborn it was gone. I assume it's at the bottom of the Atlantic. Or somewhere with an ever-growing pile of clothes."

"There are things to consider," Myka began. "Like that this might not work without the bullet."

"Ooh, a two-fer," Pete agreed.

Myka nodded. "Two artifacts working together. Both must be neutralised."

"Okay, let's say this does work," Henry prodded.

"You might die," Myka said bluntly. "Or, you might become mortal and age as normal. I'm sorry, Henry, we just have no way of being sure."

Henry glanced down at the pistol in his hands and nodded. "But there's potentially a way to end this?"

"As long as the pistol is the sole source, yes."

"Or if not, you find the bullet," Pete added. "The Warehouse has been around for centuries, and it will continue on. As long as you keep the pistol safe, as you have been-" He broke off when he saw the horrified expression on Myka's face, and gave her a hopeful smile. "I mean, come on, Mykes, he doesn't have to do this tonight, right?"

Myka considered it for a moment. Her eyes darted from Henry, Jo, Abe, and to Pete, all looking at her with hope in their eyes. She sighed. "We could keep it safe, at the Warehouse..."

"Yeah but what if it was accidentally gooed?" Pete reminded her.

Myka hesitated, not comfortable with the idea of an artifact floating around out there, instead of being in the Warehouse where it belonged.

"I'm not ready," Henry admitted as he placed the gun back in its case. "I…" He looked at Abe and moved to the man's side. He snaked an arm around his shoulders. "I'm not ready to leave my son." He gestured for Jo to move beside him. She did with small, shuffling steps but with a smile playing on her lips, and he slung his arm around her shoulders too, until he was between the two people who meant the most to him in this world. "I... "

"Spit it out, Henry, tell the girl how you feel."

Henry glared at Abe but then his eyes softened as he looked at Jo. "I care about Jo too much. I would like to…to try..."

Jo turned to him and gave him a watery smile, leaning her body into his touch. "Me too, Henry. Me too," she whispered. "Don't leave before we've had a chance to try, okay?"

Henry smiled, his soft gaze holding hers. "Deal." His arm around her shoulder slipped a little, until the tips of his fingers rubbed just above her elbow.

A warm smile played on Myka's lips. She knew that look. Love. She'd seen in her own partner's eyes enough times over the years. "Keep the artifact safe, Henry. When you're ready, contact Artie. We can go from there."

He tore his eyes from Jo's, and turned to Myka. "Thank you, both of you. This has been the most unforgettable week of my life. I perhaps could have done without the bout of depression and the overdose, but it'll certainly never be forgotten."

"Thank you for trusting us, Abraham," Myka told him. "You and Izzy can go from here, get whatever tests done you feel necessary, should you require further proof."

Abe merely shook his head. "Looking into his eyes is all the proof I need." Looking to his father, he said, "Wanna meet my brother, Pops?"

Henry's face broke out in a wide grin. "I would be honoured."

"We'll get Artie here soon," Myka promised. "He's looking forward to meeting you."

A broad smile lit up Abe's face.

"Um, so quick question," Pete said, a little sheepish, but not able to keep his mouth shut. "If I were to get the best pizza in town, where would I go?"

"Antonio's," Jo and Abe both announced at the same time.

"I've heard nothing but good things," Henry agreed.

Pete grinned. "Sold! Come on, Mykes. You owe me dinner."

"I do not owe you anything," she told him, voice firm. "I think you owe me dinner. Or a visit to _Unnameable Books_."

"What is it with you and that bookstore?" he questioned, before adding, "And what do I owe you for anyway?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"You don't have an answer."

"Oh, trust me, I have an answer," she fired back.

"Really? Prove it."

"Okay well let's start at the beginning, with you not being able to pronounce my name. Mee-ka? Really? You were an ass—"

His hands slid to her waist and he pulled her in, his mouth slanting over hers, his lips silencing her.

Jo averted her eyes, glancing down at the floor, up at the ceiling, accidentally at Henry…

He smiled at her, but there was affection burning in his eyes. She knew exactly where his mind was.

"We should talk," she said gently, almost whispering to him.

Abe slipped away, took a step back, gave them what privacy he could.

Henry nodded at Jo. "I'd like that."

"Tonight," she said, resolute. "It's been a huge day but… I think it's time we… talked."

He reached out and tucked stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Tonight," he agreed. His fingertips grazed down her jaw, and he nodded, echoing the word one more time, finalizing it so neither could back out. "Tonight."

A disgruntled, "ugh!" drew their attention back to the agents as Myka slugged Pete in the arm.

"She loves me, I promise," Pete said, rubbing his arm.

Myka smirked. "Yeah, I do." She turned and walked off, back up the stairs.

Pete threw them a wave. "Whenever you're ready, Henry," he reminded him one more time, before following his partner.

Henry smiled. To Abe and Jo he said, "Nothing works up an appetite like dying. Dinner?"

Izzy appeared at the top of the stairs, glaring down at them. Before Jo or Abe could respond to the dinner request, Izzy asked, "Wait, who died?"

"Oh. Yeah. About that…" Abe trailed off.

Henry glanced up, and his eyes lit up in pure delight. "Oh, Abe," he murmured, before throwing his arms around his son, wrapping him in a warm hug.

Jo grinned up at Izzy. "As someone who only heard this story a few months ago, let me suggest you sit down first, and maybe have a glass of something strong ready."

Henry and Abe separated, and Abe began making his way up the stairs to his brother.

"Vodka," Izzy said without hesitation.

"Does Żołądkowa Gorzka work for you?" Abe asked.

Izzy shook his head in wonder. "You have given me all the proof I need that we are indeed brothers."

The two men walked up ahead. Henry hung back for a moment and turned to Jo.

"I wish to apologise for yesterday, and for last night."

"There's no need, Henry. None of it was your fault."

"You kept me safe, watched over me. I will forever be in your debt."

"Not safe enough though," she said sadly.

"I did what was necessary, only because I knew I would return."

Jo was quiet for a moment, before giving him a slight nod. "Just promise me that when you're ready to take that pistol of yours to the Warehouse you take me with you. Don't do it alone. Because what if… Henry what if..."

"I know," he said gently, taking her hand in his. He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, a light touch with promises of more. Not content to leave it at that, Jo gripped his hand a little tighter and deepened the kiss. She breathed out a sigh against his mouth, her body melting into his, and poured over a year's worth of emotions into the kiss.

There was so much to talk about. So many thing to consider, to work through. After all these years he might finally have a cure.

_And Abe had a brother._

Her heart swelled in joy. They had the entire evening to talk, but, she decided, for now, in this one perfect moment, no words were necessary.


End file.
